


Moscow

by NuMo



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, F/F, Missing Scene, Moscow, Pre-Slash, s2e09 Vendetta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a freezing H.G. Wells is thrust, artifact and all, into the surprised if responsible hands of Myka Bering, and Artie is unavailable for information, and Pete can't really help either. </p><p>So Myka does what she always does and figures it out, only to realize that at the end of it, she'll have even more to figure out than before.</p><p>---</p><p>Spoilers for s2e09 Vendetta, obviously. This fic does tie somewhat into my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/30332">Chrysalis series</a>, but it stands on its own very well also.</p><p>Rated for language.</p><p>---</p><p>WH13 and its characters don’t belong to me, I’m just playing and I promise I’ll return them when I’m done. I do own my own characters, and, as always, I love me some feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moscow

“ _You_ started this, _you_ take care of her.” Artie’s words came in his usual brusque staccato as he looked up from where he was crouched. Myka gasped to see that he was holding, however grudgingly, a shivering H.G. Wells who clung to a piece of wood as if to a lifeline. How bitterly appropriate that metaphor was, Myka realized when Artie went on, “Driftwood from the Titanic. She’s gotta hold on to it or she’ll freeze to death. Get her to her hotel, get her warmed up, get back to us.” And with this, he rose, quite apparently not caring one bit how jarringly the woman he’d been supporting slumped to the ground when he did so. Then, “Help me take care of Ivan here,” Myka heard him say to Pete, and stopped paying close attention – the two of them would be well up to doing whatever they were going to do with the unconscious Russian. 

Pete’s reply and the sounds of their activities registered accordingly dimly. Myka’s hands were already moving of their own accord, one underneath Wells’ head, the other at her shoulder. She tugged the shaking woman into a sitting position, then wrapped her arms around her in an attempt to keep the obvious cold at bay. “Are you okay?”

“If by that you mean ‘in no immediate danger of drowning’, then, yes, I daresay I am,” Wells said, her attempt at lightness marred by how thickly her words came through the chattering of her teeth.

Myka frowned, cocking her head. “Drowning?”

“Felt suspiciously like it,” Wells forced out. “Still does.”

“Which is why Artie told you to hold on to this,” Myka caught on, indicating the artifact with her chin. She thought she saw Wells nod, but what with all the shivering still going on, she really couldn’t be sure. “So… so _do_ you have a hotel room here where I could take you?” 

“Left inside pocket,” Wells said with what possibly was another nod. 

Said pocket wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to get to; Wells flatly refused to detach as much as a finger from the plank. Seeing the sheer panic in the other woman’s eyes, Myka put her facts together: Titanic driftwood, feeling of intense cold, feeling like drowning. Not quite the situation where you would let go of what you’d been told would keep you alive. And if the artifact was somehow messing with Wells’ mind as well as with her body temperature, it might well be suggesting, on some subconscious level, that it was indeed the very thing that kept afloat a swimmer in an icy sea. 

_So find a way to shift but not dislodge the plank._ And then – really, there was nothing to it, she’d done it before, right? – reach inside Wells’ jacket and look for- 

She froze.

“I assure you, Agent Bering, that there is nothing nastier in my pockets than a wealth of plastic cards,” Wells said, deducting the reason for Myka’s hesitation with her usual accuracy. “Curious how they seem to accumulate, isn’t it. One of them was issued to me by my hotel in lieu of a door key.” 

“I think I have ‘em,” Myka nodded, taking out a veritable stack. She flicked through them, then goggled when she recognized a name. “But… that’s where _we_ are staying.”

“I wanted to keep you in my sights,” Wells replied, smirking slightly. “What better way to do that than from a place that close to you?” 

“But I never even saw-” _well, go figure,_ Myka thought, rolling her eyes at herself, then decided that thinking about that wasn’t leading anywhere right now, right here. And neither did the question whether Wells had meant ‘you’ singular or ‘you’ plural. “Hold on a moment while I…” She looked around, trying to locate her fellow agents. “Pete? Artie? Pete!?” Nothing. Feeling ever so slightly put out, Myka dug into her pocket for the Farnsworth.

“Mykes, this is not a good moment,” Pete said the second his face appeared. “Can I get back to you when I’m done dodging questions I don’t understand?” The screen was flashing regularly – police beacons, Myka realized with a flare of worry. 

“Is Artie-?”

“Down a hole somewhere. Listen, Myka, I’m trying to tie them down here, but I-” he grimaced as someone shouted at him; Myka caught fragments of Russian that did not bode to well.

“Okay… okay, Pete, we’ll get out the other way and call a cab; call me when you can, alright?” Seeing his nod, she ended the call and turned to Wells again. “You up to that?”

An eyebrow rose. In all her continued, visible freezing, Helena G. Wells managed to look not-so-secretly amused. “I shall never cease to be amazed at the current age’s obvious affection with ellipsis.” The Englishwoman was probably on the upswing, Myka mused, if she could produce lines like this. “If you would be so kind as to assist me in getting vertical, I do believe I shall manage a walk downstairs.”

Again, having to find a way to work around the plank was… awkward. Wells even joked about getting it on a plane with them if she needed to ‘maintain this intimate attachment’, although Myka wasn’t quite sure just what exactly the Englishwoman meant by that – Wells had that little smirk on her face still, the one that seemed capable of turning a goddamn ‘well, hello’ into innuendo, to say nothing of a phrase containing the word ‘intimate’.

Myka had to admire the woman for poise if nothing else. For all her self-possession and ego, though, Wells stumbled when they set out, and Myka’s subsequent grab almost knocked the blasted piece of wood out of Wells’ hands. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” she burst out immediately, hearing the other woman’s weak yelp of horror. “Maybe you should… I don’t know, uh… can you close your jacket over it?” Was she turning even paler than usual?

“That’s a…” the Englishwoman gasped, “a splendid idea, Agent Bering; if… if a little difficult to execute, I’m afraid. I… do feel dreadful about continuously asking your assistance, but I… fear I require it again.”

“Alright, we’ll figure this out – you just hold on to it and I’ll…” Myka tugged at the lapel, trying to get it between grasping arm and driftwood plank, then repeated the motion on the other side. “There. That should do it.”

“I rarely had the opportunity to thank someone for wrapping me more firmly into my clothing since I turned old enough to dress myself, but… much obliged,” Wells said with a jerky nod. 

Myka rolled her eyes. “Yeah, um, don’t… don’t mention it. I mean, this also conceals the plank a little, right? Cab driver might still notice, but I guess that can’t be helped. Ready?” She turned into the direction she supposed the back door might be, listening hard, and futilely, for voices.

“As much as I shall ever be,” Wells answered with another dip of her head.

It was slow going. For all her grandiose talking, the Englishwoman had to stop for breath quite frequently, and was still shaking forcefully when Myka settled next to her in the cab’s back seat. She held up the key card, the driver nodded, she turned to her charge again. Wells was taking it hard, Myka could see that. Then again, if their roles were reversed, Myka wouldn’t exactly be dancing over rooftops either – admitting to weaknesses wasn’t what you’d call one of her strengths. And for all her blatant disregard of personal space, Wells seemed to be just as furiously private as Myka was, at least when it came to chinks in their carefully perfected armor. 

It made her wonder why the other woman had chosen to tell Myka about her daughter’s murder, her subsequent actions, her bronzing. 

Artie was still acting as though Wells was the epitome of untrustworthiness, and Myka _knew_ she should proceed (with whatever she was going to do, anyway) very carefully – she simply didn’t have enough facts yet to decide where Wells’ loyalty lay. For all she knew, the Englishwoman might be playing her for her own ends as Artie was insisting, but… 

She also couldn’t forget the trembling in Wells’ voice, nor the look in the woman’s eyes both times she’d confided in her. Nor her own mortification when she’d opened the locket she’d all but demanded off her, and realized that, after the passage of a century, the sweet face she was looking at couldn’t possibly be around anymore, even before Helena had told her about her daughter’s death.

She had no tether, she’d said back then, and that the Warehouse represented the only thing familiar to her. And damn her, but Myka knew exactly how that felt. 

And now the woman was sitting next to her, trembling, breath hitching now and then, meeting Myka’s occasional solicitous glance with a well-practiced and so very forced smile.

“Here,” the driver said, his accent sharpening the word, and pulled the car to a halt.

Indeed they were. Myka recognized the façade immediately – gaudy was definitely too small a word, God, but how Pete had loved it. “Spasibo,” she answered, paying him, then followed Wells’ directions. 

One floor up, same wing. Wells had been staying almost on top of them, for heaven’s sake; Artie was going to have a fit when she told him. And in a goddamn suite, too. But all the old-fashioned largesse and plush carpet and soft lighting were of no use to the woman standing in the middle of it all, clutching a piece of driftwood, and still and ever so noticeably shaking. 

“Um… so…” Myka began, running a hand through her hair, “how do we get you warm, then? How do you feel?”

“I would feel a lot better,” Wells said with a shudder and the attempt of a smile, “if Artie had lost at least some words about just how long I need to hold on to this, or how I’ll ever detach myself.”

 _Artie!_ “Wait, I’ll call him,” Myka said immediately, pulling out her Farnsworth. After a full minute of waiting, though, she had to admit defeat. “He’s not answering,” she said for Wells’ benefit as she put the device away. Probably still in that hole Pete had talked about. He probably would have just asked where they were, in any case, and Myka was not sure at all yet of how to tell him. And Pete certainly was no expert on neutralizing the effects of random artifacts, and probably still being yelled at, in any case, since he hadn’t called in again. “So it’s up to us, then.” She tried to throw Wells a reassuring grin. “You… you could try letting go of it now. I mean, I’m here, I could help. If something goes wrong, I mean.”

“Thrust it back into my drowning hands, as it were?” Wells quipped, eyebrow raised over a taut pair of eyes. “If it’s all the same to you, I really rather wouldn’t. When you almost knocked-”

“Look, I am…” Myka began, then flopped her arms once. She _was_ sorry. She’d said so. And surely Wells wasn’t the kind to harp on about something just to make someone feel guilty.

She wasn’t. She even rolled her eyes. “It is al _right_ , Agent Bering. You did apologize profusely, and I accepted, so as far as I am concerned, the matter rests finished. No harm was done, after all. But the incident did convince me that letting go is not in my best interest at the moment.”

“I suppose running you a hot bath isn’t exactly a good-” Myka stopped herself when Wells shuddered even more pronouncedly. “Hadn’t thought so,” she mumbled, fingers at her lips in thought. 

“Agent-” the other woman began suddenly, then broke off with an exasperated sigh. “Oh ruddy hell,” she went on, flicking her eyes up to the ceiling, then back to Myka, “I am not quite aware of how much protocol might have changed in these matters, but… would you think it too forward of me to call you by your given name?” Wells sounded nothing like her words would suggest. No brashness, no flirting – she seemed almost insecure, as far as she even could. Myka frowned, and Wells, noticing, went on, “I do have an idea that could allow us to extricate myself from the artifact’s effects, but it is rather… unusual. I would feel decidedly more comfortable if I were to put it to Myka instead of Agent Bering, you see.”

Myka’s frown deepened. What on Earth…? Well, she would find out, wouldn’t she. “Well, alright then.” The moment she said it, she realized that while she’d been sincere, neither her tone of voice nor her stance seemed very welcoming. She couldn’t take the words back, but she could at least stop pursing her lips, right? And uncross her arms. Which left only the question where to put them instead – back pockets, she decided. “Um, shoot.” _God, Bering, really?_

Wells certainly didn’t seem to mind. She smiled, a true if slightly timid smile. “Myka, then – I do hope you’ll do me the favor of reciprocating.” 

She paused then, looking at Myka quite hopefully until the agent caught up and complied, shifting from one foot to the other. “If that’s what you want… H.G.”

This time, her effort won her not a smile but a chortle, which, all things considered, was good, wasn’t it? Laughing was good. “Helena, please, Myka. H.G. will do in a crunch, but in things as personal as these, do call me Helena, will you?”

“Alright, then, Hel-” Another of Helena’s words grabbed her attention, though. “Personal?”

“Well.” Wells looked down, resting her cheek against the plank almost pensively. “If I were to let go, the sensation of drowning would resu-”

“So it _does_ have that effect on you,” Myka interrupted her. “I knew it!”

“It certainly does not surprise me that you realized it would,” Wells – Helena!, Myka corrected herself – continued without missing a beat. “Now, if one were a drowning woman, what other options would one have except clinging to a piece of driftwood?”

“Well, clinging to something larger and buoyant? Getting picked up and rescued?” Myka hazarded. “We are somewhat low on lifeboats here, though,” she added, shaking her head. Where was Helena going with her argumentation? If she was going anywhere at all. But she _had_ said she had an idea, hadn’t she?

“I am in close vicinity to a helpful person, though,” Helena said quietly. Myka’s eyes narrowed. What the- “Myka,” the Englishwoman continued, her accent-tinged voice rendering the name strangely, incredibly compelling, “I do realize that, given my previous banter, this might so easily be misconceived, but…” She fell silent, bowing her head until her hair almost obscured her face.

“You’re going to suggest I hold you, aren’t you?” Myka said, equally softly.

“It should alleviate the cold, at least,” Helena looked up again with a lopsided smile. “I will, of course, understand if you aren’t-”

“I’ll do it,” Myka said, surprising the Englishwoman and herself. She peeled herself out of her coat – it wouldn’t be of much use, would it. Boots, too; she might as well get comfortable; who knew how long Helena would need to… well. Myka cleared her throat. “Um… I was just thinking…” she said, hesitated, forged on, “I mean, not knowing how long you’d… um, I think you should take off… well, probably _I’ll_ need to…”

“I should take it as the very kind and very… personal favor of a friend,” Helena said, sounding a little throaty, “if you could remove my coat and boots as well.” There was a blush on her face, and for some reason, it brought Myka a bit of reassurance. Helena was _not_ taking advantage of the situation; she seemed honestly uncomfortable about her idea. But, well, it was the only one they had, right?

“Right,” Myka said quickly. “Right. So I’ll, ah… Well, let’s start with your boots then, uh, He-, um, Helena.” _Jeez, get a grip on yourself._ A friend, that’s what Helena had said. She was being a friend. It should come easy, shouldn’t it? Anyone could be a friend. 

To a woman who had, practically minutes after they’d met for the first time, caressed Myka’s fingers while the agent had been handcuffing her. 

_Relax, goddamnit,_ Myka told herself. _You don’t know if that wasn’t just an involuntary motion back then (my ass) shut up! I’m a grown woman and so is she, and she_ is _trying to make this easy and clearly unambiguous._

Still, it took her a moment. Getting Helena’s coat off was given up as a bad idea after a few almost comical false starts – they certainly were grinning a lot. Well, Myka was. Far better than to show how mortified she felt when she accidentally brushed Helena’s left breast through the fabric of her coat. 

“Um, so…” she said when the boots were tucked away neatly at the foot of the bed. “So, we’re going to… you’re going to let go of the artifact and hold on to me instead, and if it turns out it doesn’t work, I’ll give it back to you, right?” 

“That seems to be the way forward,” Helena nodded, eyes flitting this way and that. “We will have to take care not to blow across the wood’s surface, though. That’s what sets the artifact off, and-”

“-and we don’t want that,” Myka finished the sentence, nodding as well. “Alright, got it. You ready?” _Ellipsis_ , her mind shouted, and she almost laughed. “I mean, do you feel ready, Helena?”

Silence.

“Helena?”

“No.” It was a hoarse gulp rather than a word. Helena’s eyes finally settled on Myka’s, wide and wild in sudden, throbbing panic. “I… I can’t.”

The pieces clicked into place “Helena, listen to me,” Myka said gently. She needed to reassure the other woman. Helena needed to relax enough to let go, and Myka had to lead her there. She could do that. As a friend. “Listen,” she repeated, maintaining eye contact. “I’m right here, Helena. We’ll get you out of this mess, and you’ll be fine. You’re going to feel a bit worse for a moment, and then I’ll be there for you to hold on to, and Helena, I won’t let you drown, okay? I promise.” Pushing away the thought of how incredibly _silly_ that sounded, what with their being nowhere near so much as a puddle to drown in, she put one hand on Helena’s right – easy, lightly, non-offensive. “See? I’m right here. If you relax your hand…” she put her fingertips at the edge of Helena’s palm, ready to slip them in if Helena should do what she suggested. “Just a little, Helena. No need to let go completely.” Wait; was it safe to be touching the artifact, at all? Helena had said that blowing on it activated it, right? Myka turned her head away from the blasted thing, to make sure _that_ didn’t happen. “See? No one’s blowing on it. We got this _licked_.” Helena chuckled, more to relieve her tension than from any form of amusement, Myka was sure. 

Then Helena’s hand unfurled ever so slightly, and Myka was in. Touching the artifact herself didn’t subject her to its effects, thank God, and Myka took great care to exhale away from it – she needed to let go of that breath she’d held, and the force with which she did would so have counted as ‘blowing’.

“Here we are then,” Helena said. “Myka, I do apologize for…”

“Don’t worry.” Her fingertips were going numb already, Helena was pressing them against the wood so hard, but Myka didn’t mind. “How do you feel?”

“Well, things haven’t changed _that_ much, have they?” It was perplexing how the woman could speak in a voice so different from her body language. One was all nonchalance and bluster, the other was… clingy. Desperate. Drowning.

“Well, change them further, then,” Myka said, trying to answer to the lightness rather than the fear. “Take my hand. Let go of the plank. Just this hand, for starters. I know you can do that.”

A muscle twitched in Helena’s cheek. That, and the ever-present trembling, was the only motion for a few long moments. Then Helena tilted her head up and laughed, once. “You know, Myka, I _was_ going to tell you off for patronizing me, only to realize that, every time I’ve almost convinced myself to go through with it already, I lose my nerve. I had thought myself stronger than that.”

“You are, Helena,” Myka insisted. “It’s just the effect of the artifact, right? Hey, would it help if I counted to three?”

It did, and Myka found her fingers crushed in a grip that made her wince. She shushed Helena’s renewed apologies and raised their connected hands until they touched her shoulder. “Now grab my shoulder instead; I need my hand once you let go of the plank, right?”

“Right.” But once again, Helena didn’t act on her words. This time, it wasn’t her jaw that clenched, but her eyes that rolled. “This is getting bloody exasperating, _really_ ,” she grated, then practically _forced_ her hand to Myka’s shoulder where it dug desperately into flesh and bone and pulled Myka in, into what could only be called an embrace. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Myka.”

“I told you to stop apologizing, didn’t I?” Myka shook her head, as much at the Englishwoman’s obstinacy as at herself. Her left arm had reciprocated Helena’s motion quite without having asked permission, but to pull it away from the other woman’s waist now would only draw attention to it, wouldn’t it? Not to mention that it would seem awfully insensitive. “It’s alright, honestly. Still doing okay?” A shudder, more pronounced than the background trembling, ran through Helena, alarming Myka instantly. “Hey – Helena, are you alright?” She couldn’t see the other woman’s face, close as they were, but when she tried to pull away, Helena _groaned_ (really, there was no other word for it; she sounded like a boat in a gale- _okay, bad simile, Bering, bad, bad simile_ ) and held on even more tightly. “Whoa,” Myka murmured, “I’m here. I’m not going. I said that, didn’t I?”

“You promised.” The words came out muffled and husky and choked, but Myka was quite sure that that wasn’t just because of the shoulder they were being spoken into. Helena cleared her throat and continued, “Goodness gracious, hark at me. Honestly, Myka, I suppose can only throw myself upon the tender mercy of your discretion when we’re through with this. And, to answer your original question, I am… well, mostly alright, I’d say.”

Myka cocked her head – ‘mostly alright’, huh?, and for some reason she found it hard to believe even that. “You sure about that?”

“Whatever do you do with your verbs when you leave home in the morning, darling?” Again, body language and spoken words couldn’t be farther apart – Helena’s fingers clenched around the fabric of Myka’s shirt hard enough to wake worries of a different kind.

“You tear that, you explain to Artie why I need a new one,” Myka quipped. If Helena wanted teasing, Myka could do teasing. If Helena wanted a reassuring hug, Myka could do that, too. As a friend. “Plus you pay for it, of course.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, darling.” 

If Helena wanted to call her almost ridiculously British endearments, Myka could bear that, as well. And if Helena fell silent because she needed a moment, Myka could give her that easily.

Close as she was to the other woman, Myka could judge Helena’s heart rate quite accurately, and it was nowhere near normal yet. Temperature, too – still worryingly low. The fingers of Helena’s left hand, curled around the artifact just beneath Myka’s right, were icy cold despite their closeness, emphasizing the need to go on as soon as they could. Still, for the moment it was clear that Helena couldn’t. 

It was a strange thing, this one-sided hug with a plank of goddamn driftwood wedged between them. Then again, not stranger than flying through the air courtesy of a grappler gun, right? Myka chuckled. “Quite a difference from the first time we were this close,” she explained, and would have sworn that Helena relaxed for a moment.

“Indeed.” So Helena remembered, too? The twinkle in her eyes when she tilted her head back to look at Myka seemed to say so.

“Are you ready to go on?” Myka would no longer be teased about her grammar if she could help it. Or if Helena really, really needed to be cheered up.

“What do you suggest?” With the gleam suddenly gone, Helena’s eyes were all business, and still, again, there lurked badly veneered panic in their depths.

Myka tried to exude confidence and reassurance as she looked down at the other woman. “Well, I’ve got the artifact secured. When you let go, give me a moment to remove it before you crush my ribs, will you?”

“I shall attempt to restrain myself to the utmost, Myka.” Myka couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. “And after you have safely discarded the blasted thing, what will you do with it?”

“Oh, uh, I… I hadn’t really thought about that, in fact.” Damnit, she really hadn’t. What was it with her? “I guess I was trying to do this one step at a time,” Myka finished lamely, and set her chin when Helena chuckled. 

“It does pay to think ahead a few more, though.”

“Well, yah, alright, so I didn’t, stop rubbing it in.” She thought for a moment, then snapped the fingers that had, until then, rested on Helena’s shoulder blade. “Coat – I’ll wrap it in my coat. No one can blow on it when it’s swaddled, right?”

“Splendid idea, darling,” Helena murmured with a goddamn _smirk_ , and for a fraction of a second, Myka was tempted to punch her. Sorely, severely tempted. Then, “You left it on the chair, did you not?” the Englishwoman said, frowning a little, and the impulse dissolved into action plans.

“Yeah, I did,” Myka sighed. She had indeed thrown the coat across the chair’s backrest – a chair that stood in front of the desk, three meters behind Helena’s shoulder. “Did you ever learn to dance?”

“I beg your pardon?” The frown deepened, confounded by the sudden change of topic.

“Well, we have to move backwards, and you’d have to follow my lead,” Myka explained. 

“Ah. I understand.” Helena chuckled again, shuddered almost violently, set her teeth. “Well. Lead on, then, Agent Bering.”

“Okay, so… Um… left foot first, okay? Um, my left, that is.”

“Righty-ho,” Helena breathed into Myka’s shoulder, low enough for Myka to pretend she hadn’t heard. 

The trip – all of three meters, for crying out loud – was a nightmare. Helena was no good at all at being lead, and they stumbled twice, and nearly lost their grip on the artifact the second time. Myka forged on grimly, all but carrying the other woman on the last steps, and stopped only when she felt Helena bump into the backrest of the chair, causing another stumble, another gasp. No, damnit, that wasn’t a gasp. That was a sob.

Helena Wells was crying. Shivering, shuddering, swallowing-air-in-deceptively-shallow-breaths crying. And of course she noticed Myka noticing. “Don’t mind me, darling,” she even had the nerve to say.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Helena.” Myka let go of the artifact (it wasn’t as if Helena wasn’t holding onto it with all the might of her left hand, after all) and closed her arm around the other woman’s trembling shoulder. Helena stood motionless for a moment, then turned her head into the crook of Myka’s neck and stilled again, as much as she could with sobs and cold shaking her. “It’s alright,” Myka tried to soothe her when the crying didn’t subside on its own. “This isn’t a walk in the park, exactly, is it? I guess you’re allowed a bit of leeway.” She nudged Helena’s shoulder with hers, and the smaller woman drew in a deep breath, then turned her head, wisely, before releasing it. “There you are,” Myka said with a smile when their eyes met.

“There we are,” Helena agreed, absentmindedly wiping her cheeks on Myka’s shirt. They both noticed at the same time, and Helena froze again. “Oh bollocks, Myka… honestly, I _am_ so s-” 

“Yup, you are so going to buy me a new one,” Myka laughed, cutting off Helena’s apology. “Now just wait a minute; I need to spread the coat on the desk. Will you be okay if I let go that long, or would it endanger my shirt further?”

“Does it still matter, darling?” 

Reassured by Helena’s wisecrack, Myka removed her hands and busied herself with her coat. It was decidedly strange to feel someone clinging to her while she tried to do something entirely unrelated to any form of embrace, she thought. “Alright, we’re good to go,” she said when she was satisfied they were, then grabbed hold of the artifact again. “We should probably hold our breaths until we’re done,” she added, “just to make sure.”

“Will you be counting to three again?”

“D’you need me to?”

* * *

It had taken ages for Helena to let go of Myka. 

Not that Myka had minded terribly much; it had been… um, agreeable?, to hold her – slender and not heavy enough to ever tire Myka’s arms, and that, that _wealth_ of hair that smelled so enticingly of pencils and brass and something citrusy. There were worse ways to spend a night. She’d said as much to Helena when the other woman had started apologizing again. After that – no, even before that; from the time they’d both been satisfied that letting go of the artifact would not kill Helena G. Wells, the Englishwoman had, if haphazardly, rebounded to her usual brash and witty self, even if she’d refrained from flirting. And a good thing, too, because, as pleasant as this… embrace had been, it had also been the act of a friend for another friend, right? And flirting had no part in that. Unspoken, but full and mutual agreement. 

Sure, Helena, however droll, however cocky, had still been shivering, still been clinging to Myka like to a life buoy (well, _yes_ , duh). But same as before, it had just been body language, something involuntary, something for two grown-up and capable women to poke friendly fun at.

Which is why neither of them would ever mention the times when Helena had not been able to joke. When Myka had cradled her like a child, carrying her to the bed and wrapping arms and blanket around both of them like nothing so much as a cocoon. When Myka had whispered nothing but entirely nonsensical syllables, and hadn’t been teased for it. When Helena had cried again, not from cold, not from panic; from exhaustion, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, from heartache; Myka wasn’t sure. 

When Myka had kissed a still-too-cold temple in an awkward attempt of comfort, because all the others had failed and Helena was still clamping down on sobs so much that it threatened to shake her apart.

A seam of Myka’s shirt had given, eventually, and they’d found, in that bit of laughter, a way out of Helena’s darkness, teasing and mortification and questions about size and color preferences paving their path. 

And now it was almost dawn on a Moscow May morning, and Helena was asleep and finally back to a civilized level of body temperature and still not relaxed enough to fully uncurl her hands, even if one of them was around her locket rather than around Myka. And where the agent had thought herself maybe somewhat ambiguous towards the other woman before, she found herself awash with questions now. 

_Why_ didn’t she mind holding Helena throughout the night?

Why did such a small thing as Helena’s sleeping frown bring out such a wave of protectiveness?

What on Earth was she thinking, and what would she tell Artie when he would, infallibly, ask her the same question?

What did Helena like for breakfast, and where did that thought come from?

And how, goddamnit, would she ever find answers? These weren’t Secret Service agent’s questions, and not a single Secret Service protocol worked on procuring Becauses for the Whys. Thats for the Whats were easier; part of Myka’s mind was already working on her report, a nice, factual, unequivocal account of the events that would list every single one of Helena’s accomplishments and would end with ‘the Titanic driftwood’s effects on Miss Wells were counteracted by a concerted effort of Miss Wells and this agent. The artifact was subsequently and temporarily placed in an alternative receptacle, lacking a large enough neutralizer bag.’ And a recommendation for reinstating her, if at all conceivable. 

And the matter of Helena’s breakfast choice would sort itself in about an hour or so.


End file.
